Today is September 14, 2015. I am alive and well.

There was two liters of frozen beer awash in the kitchen sink. She was ready with her straw, the kind that bent at the neck. In three days, she was to celebrate 22 years of sobriety. What’s a little beer among cats. The beer was frozen with the hope that by the time it took to thaw she would come to her sobriety. She always said beer was a waste of time. It wasn’t high on alcohol points, not like 151 Bacardi Rum.

She was naked. Another way to buy her some time to think should she abandon the beer and go to the store for rum, she would have to dress. She imagines herself slowly pulling on jeans that were in need of a belt. She would forego the bra, putting on a loose T-shirt that hid her breasts. Shoes and socks could be done in a snap.

This all began with a dream she had while she slept. She was at a bar ordering a Long Island Ice Tea, heavy on the rum. The bar was one with many mirrors. She could just make out her reflection between the Creme de Menthe and the Bourbon. Her eyes were flat. The sparkle had left even before the drink. She felt hollow like a broken clarinet. The music on the juke box singing of dying from the drink couldn’t stop her. The Long Island Ice Tea came with a little umbrella. “Aloha,” she said as she wrapped her gloved hand around the glass.

And then she felt her cat lick her face. Not even the beer was real. It was a first dream. She shivered under the air conditioner like a cat stuck in snow. In three days, she would celebrate 22 years of sobriety. For that she would dress, wearing something that flattered her six feet and a hat. Dreams be damned. She shook them off like a dog getting rid of its pony tail.

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